


Buttons

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-14
Updated: 2011-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason Arthur likes waistcoats. Three reasons, actually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buttons

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by anamuan, who is excellent in her awesome.

Arthur appreciates waistcoats. Few people do, in this day and age, and this is a shame; first, because properly dressed people are easier on the eyes (and Arthur's paisley-sore eyes can use all the help they can get), and second—most importantly—because then the way he dresses would stick out less.

Still, if things are going to stick out and grab people's attention, better Arthur's fashion sense than his nipples.

The little bastards persist in being perky, especially in cold weather, and overly sensitive. The waistcoats serve a double, nay, triple function: keeping Arthur warm, keeping his nipples out of sight, and making him the snazziest dresser in the room.

Not that it's hard, considering that the room at the moment consists of Ariadne in her boyfriend's oversized t-shirt, Yusuf in jeans that have multiple acid stains, Cobb in a mind-boggling combination of corduroy and flannel, and Eames.

Eames needs no explanation. Eames defies all explanations, as well as all common decency and every law Arthur has ever tried to lay down for the sake of his poor, long-suffering sanity.

"Are you actually sewn into these things?" Eames asks cordially one day, after Arthur has removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, but—obviously—kept the waistcoat on. "No, really, does a team of little gnomes come every morning and create your clothing specifically to measure? Do the buttons actually do anything? Inquiring minds want to know."

"Then inquiring minds would do better to improve their data-mining techniques," Arthur says coolly, "because I'm not going to answer that."

"So cruel, love. You wound me." Eames keeps saying that. It's like he thinks Arthur should care or something.

"Get me a PASIV and dream me a gun," Arthur says, "and I'll show you wounds. Until then, just do your job, Eames." He gets up with probably more of a huff than is warranted, getting into the bathroom to glare at himself.

The thing is, once Eames mentioned Arthur's sartorial choices, Arthur can't help but think of his reasons for them. One of them being how last week Arthur had succumbed to the heat and removed more clothing than was strictly wise.

In Arthur's defense, the temperature had been somewhere in the hundreds, and he's still a human being as vulnerable to heatstroke as any.

So off had gone the jacket, up went the sleeves, and—around lunch, when the heat went from _what the hell, I thought Canada was supposed to be cold_ to _the sun trying to assassinate me_ , Arthur had given up, taken off the waistcoat and was seriously considering removing his actual shirt when Eames had walked into the room.

Of course, Arthur's nipples had chosen that exact moment to announce their presence. And, of course, Eames hadn't failed to notice.

To Arthur's relief, he hadn't said or done anything more scandalizing than stare at Arthur's chest for the following thirty minutes. He appears to be making up for lost time now, though, because as far as Arthur can tell Eames has embarked on a quest for the holy grail of Arthur's nipples. Except that because he's a dick, Eames is probably calling it Operation Rosebud or something similarly horrifying.

But that's not the real problem. The trouble here is that Arthur's nipples are _cooperating_.

Granted, if Arthur's going to randomly claim sentience of behalf of random body parts, his dick should probably be granted a mind of its own. But Arthur's dick is actually behaving itself perfectly well. It's the damn nipples that decide to harden and jut whenever Eames is in the vicinity.

Having glared at himself sufficiently, Arthur decides to take his mind off his troubles by means of a cup of coffee.

The kitchen in the house-cum-office they're renting is tiny, but Arthur's mostly happy with that as it means everything is within reach and he can prepare warm beverages with efficiency. After all, Arthur likes his coffee like his men: strong, hot, and on time.

However, the disadvantages of a tiny kitchen present themselves when Eames decides this is the perfect time for a cup of tea. "Oh, don't mind me," he says, far too happily for Arthur's continued good mood, "I'll just –"

Several things happen, all at once. Eames reaches past Arthur to grab the sugar bowl; Arthur, who from long experience knows that Eames reaches for the spoons first, moves the wrong way to avoid him; and the kettle whistles, startling them both so they're frozen, staring each other in the face.

He has no idea why Eames is staring. Arthur is frozen because Eames' arm has brushed across his chest, and even muffled by the cover of protective cloth, Arthur's nipples have stood up and declared, _more, please_.

This is not the kind of shit that Arthur's qualified to deal with.

What Eames sees in his face, Arthur hasn't the first clue, but it seems to telegraph a moment of weakness because Eames takes one look at him and purrs, "Oh, really?"

"No," Arthur says, on principle.

Except that either somebody’s spiked his coffee or his various sentient body-parts have actually started a coup, because he follows that up with, "Wait, you know what? Fine," and takes the waistcoat off.

As a concession to the temperature and the necessities of wearing three layers in summer, Arthur's shirt is made of pretty thin fabric. Enough that if Arthur looks down he can almost see his chest hair through it.

Enough, apparently, to make Eames lick his lips and stare.

"Are you just going to _look_ at me?" Arthur demands, irritable and turned on, more than slightly embarrassed.

Eames shakes himself out of whatever daze he'd slipped into. "Terribly sorry," he says, taking Arthur by the wrist and firmly pulling him along as he starts up the stairs.

They'd taken this place, among other reasons, because it has enough bedrooms for everyone. Arthur had claimed this would encourage on-the-job naps (that aren't actually job related, _You know what I mean, Cobb_ ) and other unprofessional behaviors. He feels somewhat vindicated now, since Eames is pressing him into the bed, and whatever else this may be, professional it isn't.

Eames opens Arthur's shirt quickly, not tearing off so much as a single button. Arthur refuses to be disappointed by that.

He's pretty sure Eames only meant to bite his nipple as a kind of foreplay, something to do between the kissing and the fucking. Sadly, Arthur is wired the way he's wired, and the first touch of Eames' lips drives him to babbling.

The first hint of teeth makes Arthur come in his pants.

Eames raises his head, looking confused. "Did you just – "

"Laugh," Arthur says through gritted teeth, "and I will eviscerate you."

Eames isn't laughing, though. Eames looks a little incredulous. And very, very turned on.

"Really," Eames drawls, and bows his head to lick Arthur's nipple again.

Arthur shoves at him, forcefully. "Fuck off, it's too sensitive now."

He expects Eames to shove him back and go on, to make fun of Arthur, to open his pants and jerk off all over the both of them, the last possibly being a recurring image in some fantasies that Arthur steadfastly refuses to admit to.

He does not expect Eames to withdraw and smirk, saying, "Then I'd better wait for a later opportunity, yeah?" and leave Arthur alone, confused, and decidedly sticky in the pants region.

Thus starts Eames' most concentrated campaign against Arthur's sanity yet.

He crowds shamelessly against Arthur whenever they pass each other in the hall. He gets _handsy_ , supposedly by accident—"Oh, was that you? Dreadfully sorry," though Arthur can plainly tell he _isn't_. He seems to develop an oral fixation overnight, sucking on pens and biting toothpicks and licking his lips just to spite Arthur.

Although it's possible he's reading too much into that last one.

Worst of all, when Arthur finally confronts him, Eames won't admit to any of it, won't say anything more condemning than, "Did I? Sorry, didn't notice." Eames isn't even trying to look innocent. This offends Arthur practically on a professional level.

He's ready to wash his hands of this entire _thing_ , whatever it is, when Eames corners him.

Arthur's working late, mostly because this is the only time everything's quiet enough for him to concentrate properly. Arthur likes his team, really he does, but having people around him gets on his nerves after a little while.

This has nothing to do with Eames, okay, whom Arthur isn't avoiding at all. Arthur's got more class than that.

So it's actually _not_ particularly ironic when he looks up from his notes to see Eames smirking at him. "What?" Arthur says, more tired than anything else.

Something shifts in Eames' expression, his smile growing a little less sharp. "Can't blame a man for looking."

"Sure I can. It's called sexual harassment; look it up." Arthur smiles briefly, to show he doesn't really mean it, but the only thing he can manage is a slight baring of teeth. Well, good. Maybe that'll scare Eames off.

Eames isn't afraid of Arthur, though. Never was.

He has the actual audacity to come to stand behind Arthur then, purring something along the lines of "Don't mind me, do carry on," as he rests his hands on Arthur's shoulder.

Is Eames seriously trying to give him a backrub? Funny, he'd never struck Arthur as having suicidal tendencies.

Except no, evidently that's not what Eames means, because he's sliding a hand down, slower than glaciers, down from Arthur's shoulders, creeping into Arthur's collar and under his shirt.

Arthur drops his pen. Eames chuckles. "Yeah?"

 _No,_ Arthur thinks, but his mouth clamps shut on it and he arches into the touch without actually meaning to.

"Yeah," Eames says, and it's just noise now, not meant to convey any specific meaning.

Arthur closes his eyes, tilts his head back to rest against the chair's high back. Not at all against Eames' flat stomach.

He's only starting to get hard, but at Eames' touch – a single finger, just brushing against a nipple – Arthur's dick stands up to full attention so fast he's grateful to be sitting down.

Then Eames takes his hand away.

"What?" Arthur chokes. His voice is thick. It's an effort to let words out.

"We'll get back to that," Eames says in a reassuring tone that makes Arthur want to punch him. He spins Arthur's chair so they're facing each other – well, Arthur's facing Eames' stomach, but it amounts to the same thing.

It's a good thing, now, that Eames is as quick with buttons as he is, because Arthur would probably tear off his own shirt, now, if left to his own devices.

Then Eames opens his pants, too, and Arthur says, "Don't."

Eames' hands still. He looks at Arthur quizzically.

"Don't actually touch me," Arthur says, voice low with embarrassment. "I'll come the minute you do."

He's gratified by the noise Eames makes at that, though. That's something.

It's slightly disappointing that Eames doesn't actually touch him, then, only opens Arthur's flies and peels off his briefs to the extent that he can while Arthur's still in the chair. Arthur wriggles a bit to be helpful.

Then Arthur's sitting there, probably looking like the most ridiculous thing in the world with his waistcoat and shirt unbuttoned, cock standing stiff and nipples at eager attention.

Eames doesn't look like he's laughing, though. Eames is looking—actually—a little glassy-eyed. He swallows, looks Arthur over, swallows again, and reaches for his own pants.

Eames is hard. That would be a little difficult to miss, under the circumstances. Eames grabs his cock, pulling at it inelegantly, and Arthur barely has time to think _shit, is he going to –_ before Eames groans and comes all over Arthur's chest.

"What the hell?" Arthur manages to force out. There's come dripping in his chest hair, warm against his nipples, and Arthur's simultaneously repulsed and so turned on he wants to scream.

"Now I've gotten you dirty." Eames _tsks_. "Looks like I'll have to clean you up again."

Then Eames, that filthy tease, starts licking streaks of come from Arthur's shoulder. He kisses a line from there to Arthur's sternum, lingering. Arthur wants to kill him.

It occurs to Arthur that he has two functional hands. He raises one (just one pinch, he won't need more than that, he won't even have to _touch_ his cock), which Eames grabs and forces down.

"Impatient," Eames says, and the rotten bastard has the temerity to grab Arthur's cock at the base, _hard_ , before laving at Arthur's left nipple.

Arthur writhes in happy agony. He wants to come, wants it so bad he can taste it, same way he can taste the drops of Eames' come that landed on his lips. But Eames' grip is relentless. It won't let him, even though Eames is biting him softly now, biting his _nipple_ , and this is escalating from the good kind of frustration to the other sort very quickly.

"Okay?" Eames asks.

Arthur whines, because _no_ , because Eames stopped and Arthur needs to come _right the fuck now_.

Eames huffs a breath and kisses Arthur, briefly, far too gentle for something this sordid. Then he takes his hand of Arthur's cock, puts his mouth on it instead, and raises that selfsame hand to pinch Arthur's nipple, hard.

Arthur's not going to think about the noise he makes as he comes, because the thought of being that undignified just depresses him.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe. He opens them again, hissing, when there's something cold and strong-smelling touching his stomach.

"Baby wipes, Eames?" he says, once he regains speech. "Really?"

"Useful things. Don't knock them." Eames pinches Arthur's nipple again, vicious asshole that he is. "And don't complain when I'm cleaning you up, you cheeky bugger."

Arthur bats Eames' hands away. "Stop it, asshole, that _hurts_."

"Oh, you're a fine one to talk," Eames says, "leaving me to ache alone in my trousers this entire week."

"What, it's my fault you don't know how to jack off?" Arthur's usually not this snippy right after sex, but that nipple really smarts, goddamnit.

"It's your fault," Eames says, "for letting me have you once, halfway, then acting like nothing happened."

"Well, what did you want me to do?" Arthur buttons up his shirt. It's not going as fast as he'd like. His hands are still shaking. "Declare my undying love?"

Eames blinks. There's a moment of awkward silence. Then Eames says, "I could do it first, if you're more comfortable with that."

It's probably endorphins making Arthur reply to this with, "All right."

Then they're staring at each other, each waiting for the other to break, until Arthur thinks _God, this is ridiculous_ and kisses Eames.

"For the record," Arthur says, holding Eames' face firmly in his hands, "if you want to have sex, ask."

"The same goes for you," Eames says. "No more waltzing around looking lovely until I can't help myself, all right?"

"I think that's the most awful line I've ever heard you say, honestly," and then he's kissing Eames, just to prevent him from saying anything dumber. But only because of that. No other reason at all.

 _Yeah, right._


End file.
